


nightmare hounds

by meios



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Dead Characters Coming Back to Life, Grief, M/M, Mourning, Reanimation, Trauma, Trauma of Coming Back to Life While Underground, coffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9907772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: (or: what if bruce had been there when jason had clawed out of his grave?)





	

_I died for you one time, but never again._

 

He remembers, crawling from his own grave in the suit that doesn’t fit the way it should, made to be lying in, not moving in, the taste of real food like it’s been engraved upon his mind, how it isn’t made of worms and embalming fluid, of stitches ripping at thick, cold flesh. He remembers fingernails cracking and peeling back and the pain not being from the sense of the ripping but from the wood of the coffin ( _dark pitch black nothing air is thin_ ) unyieldingly remaining like an immovable object meeting the force of reanimation’s desperation to be free, like he is Frankenstein’s monster and all he can do is rip his mouth apart and try to scream.

 

There is no sound other than ragged maybe-breathing ( _they take the lungs out on the table and weigh the heart like a feather_ ) and wood cracking and inhuman strength fueled by adrenaline or something similar to it and there is dirt on him, in his eyes, inside of him, muscles kept straight, in rigor mortis, now protesting as he pushes more. Through six feet of dirt, he digs, continuing to pull free from the stitches, eyes attempting to open against the staples holding them shut ( _so they can’t open at the funeral so people won’t see unseeing_ ) and he can pull his lips free enough to swallow more dirt, more worms, hands finally, _finally_ breaking through the earth and into the air like crawling up from Hades on the winds of life, and there is a hand grasping his and he can’t _feel_ but there is a tugging and then the very ground around him is moving and he would not call what he does next sobbing because he doesn’t hear anything other than the rain ( _wetness from the clouds precipitation cleansing cold please_ ) and a heartbeat and the suit jacket is being undone and ripped from his shoulders and no, big hands with familiar callouses and a voice in his ears muffled by the water and the earth:

 

“Christ, Jason, I—Jason, just hold on, I’ll get your mouth open, I—”

 

He collapses against the body beside him, fumbling bringing fingers through his hair and something sharp ( _scalpel tracing Y into his torso into his chest he remembers why can’t they hear him screaming_ ) breaching the seam of his lips and he doesn’t so much vomit as he does cough out as much of the dirt as possible, pieces of wood, half-chewed worms. He has a tongue and teeth and he dry heaves over his open grave and he still can’t see and he’s scrabbling for purchase lest he forget what that is again, fall back into the dark of nothingness, Limbo, waiting his turn and reaching the end of the line and being turned away ( _not yet not yet back of the line again Todd_ ) and though his name had not been a name it had still been his and clammy palms are holding his face and the knife is trying to pry the staples from his eyes, surgeon-steady. Jason pulls away, thrashing, and he is nicked but he doesn’t bleed, and the knife swears and he is forcing his eyes open, tearing the lids, ripping lashes away, and he’s shrieking, holding his hands to his face.

 

His body doesn’t belong to him.

 

“Jason, _please_!”

 

He is struggling because he can see the gaunt man that isn’t a man, bereft of his usual weight, his usual mask bringing death to whatever he touches, and he can see the skull behind the skin and the shock of blue eyes so dulled with grief and ( _prayers and sobs before his casket closed to keep the mess of his body within they had fixed it fixed him but couldn’t bring him back_ ) tears, illuminated by the lightning striking nearby and he is shrieking and coming back to him in an instant, unable to speak, noises barely noises over the rain, and there is nothing left of him, buried next to his mother, trembling with cold not from the outside world, the living world.

 

The tug of Hades on his ankle is there, and he curls against Bruce lest the gods change their mind, carried like nothing back to a car that shouldn’t be recognizable, not to a man with, conceivably, no brain left in his head ( _frozen somewhere in a vat and left for the future for someone in need of one can his consciousness be passed on can there be another Jason Todd_ ) but he is squeezing against the carrier as he is settled into the backseat, hand scraping at a wrist as Bruce sits beside him.

 

He’s held and the rain is amplified against the metal roof of the car and there is music on the radio, the old man’s cologne in the air ( _homemade cookies slipped onto the kitchen table books open in front of him a pencil between his teeth the whispered accent of a hint or two_ ) like embracing home, and, “It’s okay, Jason, we’re gonna get help, I’ve got you, Jay, it’s okay.”


End file.
